


Standing Manifest

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: ... incidentally, Episode Related, Episode: s02e02 The Intruder, F/M, Girl Saves Boy, Poker, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-20 22:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21063953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: Five Times Elizabeth Saved John





	1. Table Stakes

**Author's Note:**

> In the 2010 Girl Saves Boy ficathon, i set out to write five times Elizabeth saved John and instead ended up with a few separate ficlets and a lifelong pledge to One Day finish the set.

Elizabeth _did_ come down to the mess hall at 2300 to start an argument, but this isn’t the one she planned.  
  
“It takes the challenge out of the game!”  
  
“It’s a different strategy, that’s all.”  
  
“_Less_ strategy, you mean.”  
  
“Threes aren’t exactly a surfeit of wild cards.” Elizabeth shuffles and bridges one last time before holding out the deck. “Major, are you playing or not?”  
  
Sheppard takes the deck, cuts it, and hands it back with a sulky expression that’s verging on adorable. “Why did I invite you again?”  
  
Ford snickers. “I did warn you, sir. She cleaned house at a few SGC poker nights.”  
  
Elizabeth smiles. “I think they were letting me win.” In truth, she only went to the SGC poker night once, and that was only because Daniel Jackson encouraged it as a way to soften the barrier between the military personnel and their new civilian commander. Things are different on Atlantis. She’s at odds with Major Sheppard much of the time—she came down here to grill him on _exactly_ what he promised the Tangar without consulting her—but it feels like they’re all on the same team. A family.  
  
Even if Sheppard is currently playing the role of the whining child. “I’m just saying, it confuses the odds. Too many things can become winning hands.”  
  
She starts to deal for five-card draw. “Just for that, now threes _and_ the Queen of Hearts are wild. Weir family house rules.” She shoots his dwindling pile of pistachio shells a cheeky grin. “Besides, you could use some winning hands.”  
  
Markham, who’s the clear pistachio-shell victor so far, starts to laugh, and the others join in. She has more critical things she should be doing—getting some real sleep is high on the list—but this break is recharging her in other ways. She’ll have to thank Sheppard later for insisting she join the game.  
  
She starts with a pair of kings and some fluff she’ll trade in, and watches the others as they bet. She’s still getting to know them, after only two months in the city. Markham’s poker face isn’t great, but his luck has been outstanding. She can tell Roscoe’s the most experienced player, and the best at keeping her hands and bets mysterious. Ford’s an open book, which she finds charming (and useful, when she needs a straight answer quickly about an offworld mission). Sheppard...  
  
She still hasn’t quite figured him out. She suspects if she knew more about his childhood, his family, she’d understand him better, but she also suspects he’ll never tell her. He has an ability to look angry and hurt and cavalier all at the same time, and he seems used to people not bothering to look past the front he puts on. He’s fascinating—and _annoying_, when he promises the moon to total strangers or argues her position at every single turn—but she somehow knows bone-deep that she can trust his intentions, even if he’s still a bit of a puzzle.  
  
At poker, however, he’s all hers. His cards might as well be transparent.  
  
Markham folds early and starts to chatter. “So, is there a story behind the Weir house rule wild cards?”  
  
There is, actually—her father said teaching poker to three wild kids inspired him to declare threes wild—but Elizabeth doesn’t get to say so before Sheppard interrupts.  
  
“Well, the Queen of Hearts is her card.”  
  
He’s clearly playing at something, but she’s not quite sure what. “Why do you say that?”  
  
He pauses, lays down some cards, and says, “I’ll take three.”  
  
She deals out the replacement cards and tamps down her expression with practiced ease learned at a negotiating table.  
  
“The card’s modeled after Elizabeth of York,” Sheppard explains. “Mother of Henry VIII, among other things.”  
  
“I’m impressed,” she says. She can tell he’s not going to fold—he’s too relaxed and confident all of a sudden—so she raises the bet. He’s telegraphing a great hand, but odds-wise, she’s practically unbeatable.  
  
“There’s a lot of wikipedia time in Antarctica,” he dismisses it with a shrug. She has raised him beyond his ability to call, and isn’t surprised when he says, “All in,” with a smug grin.  
  
She feels a little bad for cleaning him out, but she lays down her cards with a flourish. Four kings. Ford whistles.  
  
Sheppard, damn him, is still grinning as he lays down three aces. “...and the Queen of Hearts. Live by the wild card...”  
  
She can’t help laughing as even Roscoe breaks her poker face long enough to call it _unbelievable!_ and _ridiculous!_  
  
Sheppard hands her the winning queen. “Told you,” he says, and his smile is warmer—less guarded—than she’s ever seen it.  
  
Elizabeth’s nearly bankrupt, pistachio-nut-wise, but she feels _at home_, which seems a lot like victory.


	2. The Final Frontier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the day-saving, the paperwork.

He’s running late, but that’s what happens when Ronon punches you in the face.  
  
“You need to keep your hands up,” Ronon says, chomping loudly on a pear-shaped fruit that smells distressingly like pine-sol.  
  
John glares, which only makes his head hurt more. “They _were_ up.”  
  
“Apparently not.”  
  
“Will you _stop?”_ He’s been waiting in the infirmary for Carson to clear him for almost two hours, and he’s not sure what bugs him more—the wait, the ringing in his ears, or that no one has told Ronon to quit eating next to the medical equipment. Or that, right now, some pencil-pusher on Earth is making a note in his file about _poor leadership due to failure to keep appropriate records._  
  
A sparring session gone wrong with the Pegasus Galaxy’s most wanted Runner is a pretty good excuse for not turning in a personnel evaluation summary, one would think. If only the data-transfer windows, sponsored by a scheduled split-second wormhole activation, happened more than once a month. And if only the report wasn’t _already_ late by at least one window. Last month, he was on a puddle-jumper trying to stop a rogue asteroid from Armaggedoning the Nfiti homeworld. When it came right down to it, that was probably a better excuse than Ronon challenging him to a fight over breakfast.  
  
Finally, after what feels like a year, Carson comes over. “You’ve got a concussion.”  
  
Ronon says, “I could’ve told you that.”  
  
Carson ignores him. “I’m recommending you be grounded from missions for—”  
  
“—ten days, then a re-examination, keep icing it, take ibuprofen.” John has heard it all before. “Is that all?”  
  
“You can go now, but report back here tonight for observation. You are aware that the damage from head trauma is cumulative, right?”  
  
“It was an _accident.”_  
  
“Very well. But you—” Carson points to Ronon, “try to remember the difference between friend and foe. And _you_ should really keep your hands up.”  
  
**  
  
The ringing goes away by dinnertime, but he still can’t turn his head without feeling like he’s going to fall over, and he’s getting a hell of a shiner on his right eye, so he stays in his quarters rather than go to the mess hall.  
  
The door chime is obnoxiously loud, he decides, though it always seems okay when he his brain hasn’t been knocked around his skull. It doesn’t help that he’s not really in the mood to entertain visitors, particularly since there’s a good chance it’s Teyla coming to give him blocking pointers and a pep talk.  
  
It’s Elizabeth, which isn’t much better.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, visualizing her reminder email that morning that he thought he’d have _plenty_ of time to get to after a quick fight in the gym. “I hope Lorne got you all his stuff, at least.”  
  
“Two days ago.” She holds out a bowl of something stew-ish. “I actually came to bring you dinner, since I figured you’d be hiding out in here eating your pride.”  
  
She’s kicking him when he’s down, but he can't quite fight back a smile. She does that to him when she’s in a playful mood. “Pride and Powerbars. Can’t forget those.”  
  
“Not exactly a balanced meal. Carson would never approve.”  
  
He waves her in and takes the bowl. The food has a bit of a muddy color, probably from the purple Nfiti grain mixing with Earth potatoes and carrots, but it smells good. Elizabeth perches herself on the edge of his dresser and he takes a seat on the bed.  
  
It makes his head hurt a little to think about it, but he asks, “What do you think the IOA will say about the missing report?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
It’s unlike the IOA to say _nothing_ about anything. “Ah, you think I’ll just be quietly demoted, then?”  
  
Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, they got the report. I wrote it for you.”  
  
That stops him, spoon of stew halfway to his mouth. “You did?” And then, since sure, she knows everyone in the city, but she doesn’t really get involved with the standards and discipline for his people, “How did you know what to say?”  
  
“You always say exactly the same thing,” she points out, one eyebrow cocked. “Everyone’s performing exceptionally, their skills are improving on pace, and they should all get promoted. Which, to be fair to your blanket praise, is probably true for most of them.”  
  
“It’s none of Earth’s business, judging our people from that far away.”  
  
“You do know that Caldwell files his own reports about our military personnel.”  
  
He growls. “He’s barely even met them.”  
  
“Easy,” she warns lightly. “I haven’t seen his reports, but I imagine they’re mostly favorable at this point. Though he’s still not your biggest fan.”  
  
_No kidding_, John thinks. He’s sure there are quite a few negative comments about his leadership on his military file, and most of the ones from Caldwell are probably worse than _failure to keep appropriate records._ He wishes Elizabeth didn’t seem to be getting quite so friendly with him. Now, she’s accepting Caldwell’s invitations to lunch when he’s in the galaxy, and John preferred it when she spent most of her time around the _Daedalus_ commander telling him to go to hell.  
  
“For what it’s worth,” Elizabeth says, “I agree with you. Our personnel concerns are our problem, and anything they try to do back home will only complicate matters. We take care of our own.”  
  
He wants to smile at her, but his head hurts. “By forging their reports, occasionally.”  
  
She raises an eyebrow. “_One_ time. Next time, I’m letting the IOA teach you a lesson. You did have two months to write that, you know.”  
  
“Next time,” he promises.  
  
“Apology accepted. Besides,” she indicates his head, “I think you’ve learned enough lessons for one day.”


	3. Regarding Gifted Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my version of "John finds out how he got promoted in 'Intruder'"

John bursts into her office after dark and Elizabeth nearly jumps out of her skin—first, because she thought he was with most of the off-duty Atlantis and Daedalus crew celebrating the Athosian harvest on the mainland, and second, because he looks _pissed_. She’s seen in an awful lot of moods, but she’s never been on the receiving end of this one before.  
  
“We need to talk,” he says.  
  
Not pissed, she realizes. Betrayed, disguised as pissed. She’s never been the target of that, either.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“I had a drink with Colonel Caldwell tonight,” he starts.  
  
John and Steven have a tenuous working relationship at best; the two of them drinking together is high on her list of undesirable situations. It’s a ridiculous thought, because they’re all professionals who manage to coexist, but for a brief flash she pictures John actually killing him.  
  
Other than murder, though, she can’t think of anything in particular that might have happened that would put him in this mood, and her stomach tenses at the possibility that Steven shared some knowledge about IOA politics that she hasn’t heard yet.  
  
“Sit down.”  
  
He does, then works his jaw for a moment before saying, “He told me how I got promoted to Lieutenant Colonel.”  
  
It’s been almost a year of Wraith and long-shot survival and alien possessions since then; she honestly never expected it to come up again. “What did he say?”  
  
“He said you made them promote me.”  
  
She waits for more, but that’s all gives her.  
  
“Yes, I did.” She didn’t tell John at the time that the promotion was her idea, figuring it would mean more to him if he thought it originated with the Air Force brass. Maybe she should have; it would have been better coming from her because John takes everything Steven says as an attack. All that aside, she considers scoring John’s promotion a shining moment from that otherwise heartbreaking trip to Earth, and she never expected he would be _angry_ about it.  
  
She adds, “You more than deserved it.”  
  
He glares at her. “Not according to Caldwell, or General Landry.”  
  
She’s going to have a _talk_ with Caldwell later. “That’s ridiculous, John, and it isn’t about you. General Landry wanted a known quantity in command here, and Colonel Caldwell was his first choice. I didn’t know he was still bitter about it.”  
  
“So Caldwell was right. It had nothing to do with me. I only got this rank because you forced a deal with the SGC.”  
  
Now she’s getting annoyed. “I’m your boss, John.” It’s been a long time since she’s thought of their relationship in such Earthbound, cut-and-dry terms. “Of course I fought for your promotion. General Landry didn’t know you, and I did. You didn’t deserve to lose your position because of someone’s interpretation of your service record.”  
  
His expression looks like he’s eating something bitter. “Caldwell made it sound like they were about to send me back to Antarctica.”  
  
She remembers how furious she was. She’s since mended fences with Landry and Caldwell—the general has actually told her that was the moment he knew he’d like working with her—but at the time, she would’ve taken them down with everything she had. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”  
  
John sinks down in his chair, deflated. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
She sighs, and thinks, _to avoid this conversation_. “Because then you would’ve thought you didn’t earn it, when you did.” He walked taller afterwards, like by bestowing him a new title, the Air Force was forgiving all his past mistakes. She teased him at the time for his newfound smugness, but she liked that confidence on him. She still does.  
  
He frowns. “So now what am I supposed to do?”  
  
“Thank me?” She scrubs her hands over her face. It’s too late at night for this, she decides. If he’d confronted her over breakfast, she’d probably work harder to soothe his ego.  
  
He picks up a small wooden figure off her desk and turns it over in his hands. “Do you ever think...”  
  
He’s quiet long enough that she prompts: “What?”  
  
He winces. “That they were right?”  
  
Her heart sinks. She isn’t sure if his uncertainty is because of something specific that Steven said over Athosian ale, or if he always carries this self-doubt around with him. They’ve lost a lot in the last year and she’s disagreed with his decisions more than once, but her answer is immediate and honest:  
  
“Never.”  
  
John nods, puts the figure down, and gets up to leave. He’s almost to the door before he turns and gives her a wry smile. “Thank you, by the way.”  
  
She smiles back. She’ll seek him out for lunch tomorrow, to make sure he isn’t still stewing over this. “Good night, John.”


End file.
